Dear You,
by bumbersnatch
Summary: A letter from one past lover to another.


Dear you,

It's been 630 days since you left me. Did you know that? That's roughly 21 months. But it's been much longer really. You hadn't been here for a while, but that's when I started. I think it was about a year and a half until I started the count. I had known you for 7 years and we had been together for 5. I don't know what took us so long to finally admit our feelings, and looking back I can't believe it was really 2 years until we gave in to our emotions. But there we go.

It's now been ten and a half years since we met, but I bet you are still the same. Same smile that was only for me. Same tastes. Same everything. I bet you still wear those ridiculously snuggle-y jumpers and practical shoes. I bet you still have the same morning routine: shower, cup of tea, clothes, more tea, grab your stuff and off to work. I bet you still watch nature programmes in your spare time. And most of all; I bet I still love you.

Because I do. I need you like I need oxygen (speaking metaphorically of course, breathing is boring). I need you so I can survive.

Do you remember all the adventures we had? The very first case we worked on together, A Study in Pink as you called it. You saved my life. You did that a lot actually - saved me. You saved me when you shot the cab driver in London. You saved me at the Chinese circus you took your ridiculous 'girlfriend' to. You even saved me from Mycroft after we tried to set him up with Lestrade. But most of all, you saved me from myself. You stopped me from getting myself into trouble. You made me pay the bills on time. You reminded me to eat. You even stopped the drugs. You were my drug.

However these aren't the only things I remember from our time together. I also remember how you grew cold. How you would be suspicious of everything I did. Remember Mycroft and Lestrade's wedding? I do. I remember how you flirted with every man in the room. I remember you running off to the cleaner's closet downstairs. I remember you telling me it was my fault. I remember you yelling at me that I drove you into the arms, or rather arse, of another man. I remember how you blamed my work. Blamed me. I remember Mummy trying to calm you down, because Mycroft was getting upset that you ruined his wedding. I remember how she recoiled after having smelt the alcohol on your breath. Was there any blood left in your alcohol stream that night?

That wasn't the only time you had too much to drink either. That was just the beginning. Do you remember the incident with Mrs Hudson? I'll remind you, just in case. She popped in on a Sunday afternoon to make us some tea, as she always insisted she wouldn't do. She dropped a mug. You screamed, you shouted, you scared her. You scared an innocent woman who only ever wanted to help, and for us to be happy. But you were never happy, were you? She didn't come over again for a while. The worst thing is I don't even know what brought all of this on.

I thought we were working. I thought we would spend the rest of our lives together. I was so, so wrong.

I woke up on Tuesday morning, to see you had already left for the clinic. This was not uncommon as you often had to do an early shift and didn't like to wake me. You were so caring. But instead of the usual note informing me of such actions, I found and empty wardrobe. It's so clear in my mind even now, three and a half years on. The only items left in our wardrobe were a few of my clothes, including that purple shirt you loved so much. I turned around on my heels to find that all of your things were gone from the room that so quickly became ours. I sprang up the stairs not bothering with my blue dressing gown, to what used to be your room before we merged into one. It was bare, empty and desolate. The only thing that remained was a letter that I read whilst running around our flat trying to find any evidence that you ever existed apart from this small piece of paper you had scribbled on in your doctors handwriting, that I held in my hand.

_Sherlock,_

Your books were gone.

_It has reached that point now when I can no longer bare to be here with you._

Your laptop was gone.

_I can no longer bare to see your face, or that stupid smug smile you have when you are right._

Your shower gel was gone.

_And you are always right._

Your stack of magazines you had subscribed to was gone.

_I have grown to loathe you in the most heart wrenching way._

Your assortments of teas were gone.

_Please do not try to contact me in anyway, as I am already long gone._

You were gone.

_Never yours, Dr J.H. Watson_

You had left me.

And you were never going to come home. I didn't give up though. I did however respect your wishes and never tried to contact you. I guess I just hoped you would come home to me, where you belong. Because you do belong here with me, in my arms. I wish I could hold you, and have you hold me too. I wish you could tell me how sorry you are and that you will always love me, no matter what, because that's how soul mates work. And we are soul mates, forever and always.

And I'm sorry that I drove you away. I just can't breathe without you. I feel like I'm suffocating.

I will always love you.

Yours eternally,

Sherlock Holmes


End file.
